A Brutal Precedent
by nomad1328
Summary: “Acts of kindness may soon be forgotten, but the memory of an offense remains.”  When House wakes on the floor of the clinic with no recollection of the preceding events, he begins to not only question the offense, but his own nature.
1. Chapter 1

Title: A Brutal Precedent (1/11)

Author: nomad1328

Rating: T

Pairing: Gen

Warnings: Spoilers for (up to) the end of season 3

Summary: "Acts of kindness may soon be forgotten, but the memory of an offense remains." -Proverb When House wakes on the floor of the clinic with no recollection of the preceding events, he begins to not only question the offense, but his own nature.

Note: Been working on this while breaking on Lead Me Upstairs. Thank you jdaisy for the beta work, who inspired me continue this thing and provided the feedback I desperately needed. This monster has a mind of its own, but it IS finished. Thanks for reading (and reviewing…)

* * *

Something warm and sticky slides down the left side of his nose, branches out against the angles of his face, and seeps into the crevices of his eyes. Annoying. Slide hand up, swipe at it- stings. Not his eyes- definitely his head. Heart is a jumping frog in his chest. Hard floor, making the reverberation of his heartbeat all the more difficult to withstand. Ka-thud. Ka-thud. Roll on the back- feel better, more air, less thud. Ceiling tile, black spotted, blurry. One is missing directly overhead. Hospital vent guts. 

Should get up soon. Too long on the floor. Back aches. Leg aches. Head swirly. Funny. The warm squirrelly blood seeps into both eyes this time: reminder. Keep a hand there. Right one will work. Taste of blood already on his lip. Metallic. Iron. Suck it back up- replace lost volume. Doctor Dracula melts under the light of day. Fluorescence is the enemy. Eyes close- just a moment.

Get up.

Okay. One, two, three. Place left hand down, lift. Oh shit, dizzy dizzy. He is the focal point. Retch. Tastes like pastrami and rye. Retch number two, served up on tile 46, to the left of exam table 1. A convenient rest, the table. His spine in vertical line with the steel leg; his heavy head doesn't want to stay up. It falls forward on his neck, towards the chest. Nose pressure. Like a horrible cold. Lift head, cold through the hair on the back of his head, but better.

Focus on something. Focus. Poster on opposite wall: heart disease and evil protagonist cholesterol. Focus on it. Yellow chunk of fat, stick legs, bulging eyes, sharp teeth. Like those freaks who file. Mutants- if only in their heads. This works when he's drunk. It's working now. Focus. The tilt-a-whirl is slowing. Much better. Sigh. Deep breath.

Time to get up. Because no one is coming to get him. Always does it by himself- independent. Trust no one. When he moves it, his left hand slips on the floor. It's a blue folder- not the floor. The folder has slipped his grip. Huh. Right hand on the file- head can bleed a moment. Left hand and up up up. His stomach and groin on the padded table, elbows resting, legs trembling. Gasp. Breathe. Focus. On another wall this time: a blood pressure monitor. He stares at the center of it- the little black node holding the arrow. Pointing at zero. His blood pressure might be low. Or something. Concentrate. Black dot. Good blood pressure is good health. Less heart disease. Less heart attack, stroke. Good. The nausea passes- in the clear. Hands push him all the way up. He swallows, good.

Something happened here.

Air smells like cheap perfume. His face like blood.

Something has happened.

He needs to go. Go from this room. Anyone could come here- unannounced- surprise: here I am. He needs privacy. A band-aid maybe. Vicodin too. But his pockets are empty. Must be upstairs. Strange. Never leave home without it.

His left hand on the door with the file. Why is he carrying it? Better drop it off at the desk. Medical records, confidentiality and all. Routine. Watch out for Previn. Previn the bitch. But compliance is for the sadist to appease. He's not a sadist. She might be though. Cool. She stares at him, blatant. No attempt to hide her contempt. He wants to say something to her, anything, just to see her scowl. But what to say? Nothing comes. Something between sexual innuendo and abhorrence. His wit has left the building. Stare back. Scowl. Hurts his head.

THWACK. Folder on the counter. Hand sticks to it slightly, drags it an inch back towards him. They can deal with it. He walks. Elevator better be empty. Lights from the ceiling bounce up and down. Shadows flicker in his peripheral vision. There is a hand on his sleeve. He shrugs it off, but he can't see the owner of it. Feet heavy, uncoordinated, cane is going at strange angles. Slow steps. Focus. Elevator: twenty steps. Nineteen, eighteen, seventeen….

Hallway to the office- fifty steps. They look at him. Has he grown a second head? Maybe. It hurts enough to have spouted something out the center of his forehead. It squirms, gnawing through brain and bone and flesh, bursting out, sending flecks of red into his eyes. Swipe away. Gone. Twenty steps.

Close the blinds, turn off the lights. Shut the door, but no lock here. Sit in his office chair. Damn open hospital. Glass walls. Darkness feels better. Needs something for the blood. Right. First aid. OSHA required kit is closed in front of him- appeared like magic? Really Cool. Wish for Dallas Cowboys cheerleading team. Snap. Damn. Huh.

His fingers leave red smudged trails on the white exterior of the box. Pressure bandage will do. Unwrap plastic, grab the gauze, press. "Ungh" His groan startles him. He knew there would be pain- but yet… "Shit." Need some ice. But he is tired. So tired. This is some weird dream.

Somewhere a clock ticks. Doctors and anxious patients hurry up and down hallways, students pass by, excited, nervous. No need for nerves. Shit happens no matter what you do. It'll happen. You'll get over it. People come to life; people die. All in a few feet from here.

His glass door trembles, a brush of air catches the top of his head, where the hair is not plastered flat by the blood. Someone is standing across from him- flowery, expensive lavender. Like the women he likes. He hadn't realized that he'd actually shut his eyes. He cracks them back open. It isn't easy.

"Are you completely crazy?" Cuddy asks, hands on hips, worried and scowling all at the same time. How does she do it?

What to say? There is no plausible answer because it isn't a plausible question. She has her reasons, but what are they today? What could he have possibly done to make her stand here in front of his desk?

"Maybe," is the only response he can fathom. It's neither yes nor no. Avoid definition, avoid 100 percent in all answers (unless it's a patient- then he lies for their sake, not his). Politicians do it all the time.

"You scared the crap out of Brenda and about twenty other people on your little walk. There's blood all over the elevator and the hallway. The cleaning crew is going to have to call for backup. Maybe we should bring in Hazmat. What the hell happened?"

He begins to shake his head, but realizes that it hurts. Shaking is not a good thing. His hands fall on his desk. But something is still on his forehead. Before he can lift his hands again, Cuddy is at his side, removing it for him and her wince says that it isn't pretty.

"House, this is really ugly." She fingers the wound a moment, pressing on the edges. "Why didn't you let Brenda clean this up? I think you might need stitches."

"Huh," he responds. What to say? His mind is strangely blank- out of focus. He can't make a joke about something he doesn't know. Never stopped him before.

Cuddy leans down further. This he can make a joke about because he can see the crevice between her breasts. "I'm ready." Lips pucker, waiting. She won't do it.

"You're bloody."

Good point. His hands are sticky and red. He's going to get it all over the desk. But there's nowhere else to put his hands. He crosses his arms, tucks them under his armpits. This jacket is old anyway.

"You're being quiet," Cuddy says, cautious "Your head hurt much?"

"Yeah." Indeed.

Cuddy is sizing him up. She's reaching for something and brings it back towards him.

Everything is far too bright and he flinches. A hand steadies his jaw and two fingers gently open his eye. He is forced to look at the too-bright light for a moment more and then he is free. He blinks, trying to clear his vision as Cuddy comes back into view. His legs dangle off the edge an exam room table and his jacket is gone. Goosebumps pop up on his bare arms, hairs on end, and an involuntary shiver courses through his limbs, ending at the place that hurts the most on his forehead. His head _hurts._

"You need a head CT."

The words feel funny in his head. He repeats them and his lips buzz. "Head CT?"

"You've got a concussion," Cuddy responds, making a note on what he assumes must be his chart.

"Huh." Concussion. It makes sense. Because nothing else does. "What day is it?"

"It's Thursday. You've also asked that question about five times in the last ten minutes." She pauses for a moment, motions with her hand and he can't help the next question that comes because nothing feels right and time is not fitting into any kind of construct. This type of time leaping around like a one legged cricket only happens in one place.

"I must be dreaming…" he mutters.

"Nope."

"Then what happened?" Cuddy stops writing. She's surprised, caught off guard. This is a break in the routine- something different. She walks towards him, does something with the bandage on his head and looks him in the eye. Pulls back, a deep sigh as she pulls the gloves off her hands and tosses them in the biohazard container.

"As much as we can tell, your clinic patient didn't like what you said to her. Somehow, she managed to smash your face into the countertop. At least that's what it looks like."

"She?"

"She," Cuddy confirms. "Do you remember her?" He shakes his head in the negative. He can't even remember lunch. "What were the words I told you to remember?" Delayed memory test. He can't recall anything in the exam room before the penlight. There are spots of black everywhere in his memory. Swiss cheese. Or maybe just moldy.

"No idea," he says.

"What day is it?"

"Thursday."

"Well that's better at least," Cuddy mutters. "You're still getting a CT. And you need a few stitches."

"Was she a linebacker?" His body aches.

"Gloria Brown, forty-two year old married mother of 2 according to her chart. The police are on their way over here right now. They'll probably want to ask you some questions eventually. Though at this point…" She sighs, shakes her head. "I'll have someone take you down to radiology in about five minutes. Are you nauseous at all?"

"No. Just..." it's hard to explain. His head isn't screwed on tight. "Funny."

"Yeah, I bet." She grabs an instant ice pack from the cabinet, breaking, shaking, and then handing it to him. "Use that. Radiology- five minutes."


	2. Chapter 2

Title: A Brutal Precedent (2/11)

The cold pack on his forehead stings where it clings to the edges of the wound, but it feels good for the developing bruise. House leans back on the table, winces as the marble behind his eyes rolls to the back of his head. It comes to rest on the soft, raised vinyl of the table's built-in pillow and a breath escapes that he didn't know he was holding. Comfort. Shoulders and neck and back lose tension immediately. Head feels better already. He's okay, after all. Though a little… off. Giddy almost. His lips turn to a grin. Ha. Mother of two. His wit is untouchable- he still has the capacity. Sweet. Man, she had to have had a heck of a swing. Smash- into the counter. Wonder what the head looks like. Bled a lot. He remembers that. Blood. His hands are clean now. Mother of two. Must be overzealous- mother bear protecting her cubs. Vicious. Twelve year old was probably barfing in her spare time to make mom happy. Or hubby's late nights at the office weren't just for the extra paperwork. Huh. Always managed to escape before. Except that once. Or twice.

House opens his eyes when the exam room door opens again and a nurse comes into the room. Cuddy has been quick. The nurse (must be new), undaunted, hands him a gown and tells him to take his clothes off and put on the hospital issued regalia. He grumbles a little, tells her not to take advantage of him while he's down, and tosses the clothes into the bag she holds open for him when he's done. She's brought a wheelchair with her as well and he hops in- Old Pro. Where has his cane gone in this melee?

Radiology is a bore and House waits, silent and patient as the CT dances it's way around the inside of his head. At the end, the table rolls back out and Wilson stares down, a typical frown. Always frowning now. Unmarried, unattached, homeless. Guy should get a hooker maybe. Definitely not another girlfriend- always turns them into wives. Wives turn into burdens. Burdens turn into papers. Papers to checks in the mail, honey. A little short this month- with the other two I'm supporting. Gotta live.

"What did you do?" Wilson asks.

House's eyes roll back. Typical. "How's my head look?"

"Horrible. You need stiches," he says as House slowly pulls himself up to sit on the end of the table. Legs, bare, dangling off.

"You know what I mean. I hear trepanning is really cool. Is Borden on call today or Collins?"

Wilson sighs and rolls the wheelchair nearer to the table so House doesn't have to move far to slip into the comfortable seat. "Sorry. You've got a small surface contusion that we'll watch overnight. You might get lucky though. Twenty-four hours without REM sleep… I hear you could get some pretty cool delusions. Even hallucinations. And Krauss is filling in tonight."

"If that were true, then half the interns and residents downstairs would be hallucinating every day. Shrooms work much better. And Krauss needs a life."

"So what happened?" Wilson asks, wheelchair sliding silent through concrete hallways. Why is this part of the hospital so shitty? Looks like a military base high school- all concrete brick, plastered over with thirty years of paint. You know there's asbestos down there somewhere, waiting to kill us all. Mesothelioma. Call 1-800-lawyer NOW. And we'll sue the crap out of them.

Shrug. "Not a clue."

"The whole day?"

"I remember that it was Cuddy's fault that I was in the clinic…"

"You can't blame your job on her."

"Her hospital, her crazy free clinic. She hired me, too. So yeah, I blame my job on her. Just wish it would've been a linebacker."

"She blindsided you."

"And I took it like a wuss."

"True. Real women always attack from the front."

"You'd know."

House hides his face in a hand when he spots one of the new radiologists walking with a patient down the hall. For the past two months, House has been convinced Nancy Layman is actually Cameron in a fat suit and he really wants to avoid her. But she's seen him now- her eyes are wide, her mouth turned down, and House winces at the incident about to occur. She's a mother at heart- and a soft-hearted one at that. Doesn't take 'no' for an answer, just squeezes you so tight, you burst. Like Aunt Sarah pinching his cheeks when he was fourteen. You've grown up so much. You're just a little man now! Lady, you have no idea.

"Dr. House! Are you okay?" Nancy asks, stopping in front of the wheelchair and halting his progress. She tells her patient to wait for at the end of the hallway.

"I'm fine." It's a clipped and overstated phrase that comes out while he's looking at the way the way the wall panels are chipped in three places near the line of his eyes.

"Your head…" Nancy's lip curls on the side in a cross between disgust and concern. She leans down, faintly tracing the outline of the damage. "Did you have a CT?"

"It's nothing a little rest won't cure," Wilson says.

"And I'm tired," House cuts in. "So I'd like to get this all over with and go to bed. Have a good day." House moves his hands down towards the wheels and begins to push, sliding away from Wilson. Nancy shakes her head- expected dismay at having been shrugged off. Get over it.

Once out of earshot, Wilson doesn't hesitate to start badgering House about his employee-employer relation problem. Maybe if he'd been a little smoother, a little smarter about those types of things, he wouldn't have even been in the clinic today. "But she's not my employee," House says.

"You know what I'm saying. You suck at dealing with people and that's why you don't have a team. You're going to need Nancy one day…"

"Can't undo what's been done. So there is no problem."

"You want your team to come back? Then you'll have to talk to them."

He's interviewed four candidates since his fellows left him. He doesn't like any of the prospects. Doesn't want any of them. Doesn't want the others back. Bad enough when he ran into Cameron at the gas station last week. Don't go there. Don't think about it.

Wilson still rambles on about interpersonal skills. Blah blah. He says the things he says so he can feel better about himself. If he says the right thing, then fate can't strike him down with incurable illness or a drunk driver at a pedestrian crossing. If only it was that easy. House doesn't feel up to interjections. Much easier to lean a cheek against his fist, shut his eyes, and pretend he's not on the 3rd floor of the hospital, about to be tucked into a hospital issue bed, and given Tylenol for what will eventually be a megalithic pain in his leg.

He would've taken a Vicodin at lunch. No recollection of it, but he knows he would've. The Pfizer-sponsored clock on the wall next to the elevator tells him that it's nearing 3PM. In another hour, maybe less depending on when he'd had lunch, the Vicodin will begin to make him lethargic and his limbs will become a little heavier. He hopes that the nurse standing watch won't mistake it for a cerebral hemorrhage. Espresso usually counteracts the sluggishness, but he doubts that anyone will voluntarily leave him any on his hospital issue dinner tray. And he knows that his chances of getting opiates approximate the chance of a black hole in downtown Trenton in July. It's going to be a long night.

The first thing he notices when Wilson turns the corner into the suture room is the guy in a suit sitting in a chair by the counter. His black hair is graying at the temples, lines on his forehead and around his eyes make him seem older than his blaring white teeth. Bleach job probably. Self-conscious. Used to smoke, not anymore. The guy stands as Wilson parks House's chair by the bed. House watches as the guy's jacket flips open at his movement, revealing a gold badge on a belt and a black gun-shaped mound on his right hip. Cop.

While House and Wilson wait for the doctor who will stitch the wound, the cop gets House's statement. It's short and lacking: he had breakfast this morning, Cuddy asked him to go do his job. He recalls bits and pieces in the tapestry of time- of blood on his hands, pain in his head, walking towards his office. But the rest is non-being. Hard to explain- the state of existence or the lack thereof. No, he can't pick her out of a lineup. No, he can't tell the cop what she hit him with or how. No, he doesn't remember saying anything that might have triggered an outburst. The cop purses his lip and tucks his notepad and pen back into his pocket.

"There's a damn file on the woman somewhere. Probably best bet for 'evidence.'" The cop turns and lifts a plastic bag off the counter, holding it between his forefinger and thumb. It's a blue folder, complete with bloody smudges on the exterior. "You're a genius cop," House says. "You don't even need me."

"I understand that the concussion might have caused some memory loss- but if you remember _anything_, you'll let us know." The cop leans over and grabs his briefcase, withdrawing a digital camera. "But for now, this will have to do."


	3. Chapter 3

Title: A Brutal Precedent (3/11)

The night passes like an oversized turd in a low-flow bowl. Short periods of sleep accompany longer bouts of wakefulness, and time just isn't passing as it should. He'd slept a little in the afternoon as the Vicodin paved a path through his system. But now sleep is elusive. Whenever he looks at the clock, it's not ten minutes that have passed, but one. There is no need for the nurses who come in to wake him- he does it himself. And they won't sedate him. They've given him Ibuprofen, a heating pad for his leg, ice for his head. But his body craves the narcotic- which Cuddy has informed him will be available at 9AM tomorrow morning. Nine more hours of this. He'll start puking and they'll mistake it for a hemorrhage. Roll him into an OR, cut his head open, find out he's faking.

Turn one way, and the light from outside filters through the blinds. Turn the other and the light filters in from the hallway. Glass everywhere here. Except the clinic. No one saw what happened in the clinic. As soon as the cop figured out he didn't really "see" it either, he'd taken his photos and left. Detective Gillman had promised to call when he had an update, but either Cuddy wasn't giving House the news or there was nothing. This meant that Gloria, mother of two, was still on the prowl. Probably eating popcorn on the couch with her head in her husband's lap and her kids on the floor. Honey, why is your fist all bruised? Hit a doctor today, Stan. Real asshole of a guy. Thought he deserved it. Want me to beat him up? Nope, got it covered. Kiss. Smack. Red handprint. Not in front of the kids, Stan. Or maybe…

The door slides open. Tap tap. Bedside lamp flicks on. "Dr. House?"

"Here."

Squeeze one. Squeeze the other. Nausea? Not yet. Headache? Definitely. Date, place, name. Pupils equal, reactive- just like two hours ago. Take the ice off the head. More later. All good to go. Your BP and heart rate are up. No shit. In pain? Didn't he just answer that? 1000 mg Ibuprofen two hours ago. No more for four hours. All maxed out and up shit creek. Oh, what to do now? Nursie is a little concerned. She bites the side of her lip and leaves without turning off the light. She'll be back.

Maybe she got another call. Patient crashing down the hall. Give it fifteen.

Fifteen more. She can't have forgotten. Come on- she has to be doing something so he can get his meds. Something. Anything. His leg is in a vice grip. His face throbs. His body hurts. And he's sweating now that the ice pack is gone.

Come on. Come on.

Damn.

Light still hurts his eyes. And the lamp is still on. Scootch to the left a little, little more. Heating pad is staying in place. Grip on the little string coming down from the lamp. Who the heck put this lamp here? A tease for the immobile patient. Where are the high tech beds and why doesn't he qualify for one. Pull. There we go. Darkness again. Better than the light.

Fleeting half sleep images. A pumpkin head with a third eye, grinning with yellow teeth and yellow eyes. Jaundiced. One day maybe. First comes pain, then comes narcotics, then comes complete organ failure death in a baby carriage. Evil laugh. Grim reaper such as he is. Gobbling up lives left and right to take them to… No heaven. No hell. Only here. Here matters. Life matters. He matters. Why he has to keep going until he stops. And it won't be voluntarily.

Not like the craven, snot nosed minority doctor: Afraid of becoming like his boss. Foreman. Pitiful excuse to leave the job of a lifetime. All the things they've seen, documented, cured. Most docs only get one of those cases their entire lives. He gets one a week. Three years of medical observation, experimentation. And all Foreman can think of is himself. Why he shouldn't be like House. Foreman should _care_. Care about how a patient feels emotionally, talk to them, learn their names. It's not a name that matters- it's the illness and the cure. Simple. Scientific. Absolute without the muddy water of humanity's faults. Except those idiot suicidals. Interesting, but pains in the ass. He won't take another one of those. Doesn't help. They never admit it right away. Foreman and his feelings. Foreman and his guilt.

No guilt about stealing from Cameron though. Funny how it works. He wants to be guilty- thinks it's right. But he's not. And he doesn't feel. He doesn't care. Just wants to care. Big difference- can't change what you are. Leave so you can pretend to be something else.

And Cameron…Cameron won't last in her quiet portrayal of stoicism. It's her nature. She sits on patients' beds, squeezing their arms, smiling with oozing sympathy. Feeds off of need. Wilson should date her. Or maybe that's two north's on a magnetic strip. Repulsive. The thought of them having sex. Would it be needy? Or far too giving? Relax, let me…. No let me… no, you… Stop. Talk about repulsive. No more. She's doing Chase anyway. How long will that last?

Forever maybe. But Chase is a smart kid. Maybe he's doing something right. She is hot. Skinny, perky. Wonder if he satisfies her. Can't believe he actually took a job at General. Figured he'd split, move to California and go surfing. Or somewhere else nearby. He's a smart kid. Could get a job anywhere. Sucks up a bit- but it's a trait that serves well in the whole hiring process. Show'em you'll please'em. House had never had that himself. Arrogance before the begging pup of humility. Wonder how Hector is doing. Leg healed up where the door smashed him? Kind of hope so. Annoying dog. Did whatever he wanted- just to piss everyone off. Malevolent. Vicious in his thought. Dogs think? Rrf rrf. Break the cane. Fucker will fall over. Ha door open. Come on in dude. Stereo is just on that top shelf. Not much else to steal- but maybe you like guitars. Some Vicodin scattered about if you're into prescription drugs. No? Hey, come back here. Grabs a jeans leg, pulls. Running. Bye. See you next time, enjoy the stereo. Where's that thingy I was chomping on? Ah. There it is. Tastes like crap. But the texture…

"House…"

Not in his house, never again. Self-centered and arrogant bastard. All about him. All the time.

"House, wake up."

Foreman shouldn't be here. People with real brain problems down the hall. Or across town.

Not Foreman- Krauss. Why do they sound alike? The light is on again. Krauss is wearing his doctor gear. Only two doctors in neurology this week. One on leave, the other down with pneumonia. Way to go doc, heal thyself. And it's stroke season. Or concussion season. One or the other. Maybe both. Dead head season.

Krauss sighs, checks pupils. Yup. Still work. He looks over to the monitors, sighs.

"You're in withdrawal, House."

House glares. A bead of sweat rolls into his ear. He shivers involuntarily. Crap. He's given it away.

"You shouldn't have narcotics right now. It could mask…"

"My head's fine. If you don't give them to me, I'm going to start puking and it'll throw off this whole monitoring thing for real." He pauses. "You got the crappy shift. You need to bargain better."

"I go where I'm needed."

"No you don't. You go where you need to be needed." Same as all the rest.

Krauss's head shakes and his lips are tight.

"It's been twelve hours." He sighs again, still undecided. "How much pain is there?"

"Serious?"

Krauss sits back in the chair he's pulled over. Crosses his legs.

"Ten."

Krauss brings his leg down, crosses the other one and his arms. Skeptical. Pen tapping on the chart. "Don't lie to me, House."

"Not now, but it will be by 9AM."

Stillness and quiet. Beeping on the monitor. Too fast for this time of day.

"Come on, Krauss."

"I looked at your CT results. You've got s series of surface contusions. Narcotics increase the pressure in your skull. Those contusions could react to that. More likely, they'll just mask any symptoms…"

"_Not_ giving me narcotics will mask the symptoms." Anger, hot and pain-fueled.

"Tramadol."

"Non-narcotic."

"It could mask symptoms, but it won't raise the pressure."

"It doesn't work."

"Fine." Krauss stands. "Dr. House, I'm sorry I can't get you anything else for the pain now. The nurse will be by later to see if you need anything. Try to get some rest."

Fuck.

Oh fuck. No… don't leave. Come on…

"Come on, Krauss, you can't…"

"I'm doing what's best for you. Don't make this harder than it has to be. You can take the Tramadol or not."

"You're making this harder… Just give me my pills…"

"No."

The door shuts. Hard. Hurts his head. Clock reads 1AM. 8 hours.

Sleep. Dream. Sweat. Shiver. Shiver. Hot. Cold. Hot. Cold. There is his office. Just a floor away. Upstairs. One elevator, something like fifty feet times two. Pills there, lower right drawer in the box that once housed an Ipod. A short trip. So close. But shit. Nausea has snuck its head into the door of this throat. If he goes now, there will be a mess in the hallway. Hope Nurse Betty knows what this is. Isn't a hemorrhage. He isn't dying. Just suffering. Better lean over to the floor. Get it on the bed and they'll want to change the sheets. No thanks. Lean lean… leeaaannnn… retch. Spit. Here it comes again. Dinner. Hospital kitchen pork chop. A1 sauce. Back on the pillows, gasp. Breathe through it. Shaky. Sweaty. Damn. He gives Nurse Betty two minutes.

It takes her one and she is on him like white on rice. All the lights are on, door is open, and more nurses stampeding. Or maybe just the cleaning crew.

Dr. Krauss issued a warning. He's going to blow chunks and sweat like a pig in a concrete sty. Bitch and moan. Just ask him to get oriented. Call me if he's not. Oriented just fine. He could play it up. But holes in the head are so not in style. And baldness. Clean up the puke or it'll dry and stink. Another ice pack on his forehead. So cold. No more hot. His nose is running.

Two more episodes of this and years later, there is light coming through the window. Real, tangible sunlight. Hasn't felt this drained since he got shot. The Tritter-enforced detox was easier than this. Didn't have the gaping wound on his head to worry about. Then again, the conflicting pain signals are getting wrapped around each other. Overall, his leg hurts less than it should. More than usual. He's in the throes of detox. But tired too. The exhaustion welcomes him to its realm.


	4. Chapter 4

Title: A Brutal Precedent (4/11)

Riiiiiip. Burning stinging on his forehead. Then warmth to mask it. Cool dribbles of something- stings even more. Antiseptic. Rubbing. His eyes open. How long has it been? The sun shines more now, casting slivers of light all through the room. He can see down the nurse's scrub top as she rubs the antiseptic on his head, checks the stitches. She's got a chin hair growing out of mole on her right cheek. Funny how women miss those things and oh so embarrassing. She's married too. Probably doesn't have to worry about much. Her husband's the one who has to beg for it.

The door slides open, blinds ruffle, and Cuddy is standing in the room in her too pink suit and v cut blouse. A thin line between respect and lewdness. Sexuality and power. One in the same for women. For men too- only their power doesn't come from low cut tops and short skirts. Thank God for that.

"Feeling better?" She asks. The nurse is taping a smaller bandage over top of the sutures.

"I feel worse." His voice is raspy, tired.

"I talked to Dr. Krauss." He keeps his thoughts to himself. "No problems other than…" she pauses with an eye to the nurse. "Your leg? So you can go."

"Great." He swings his left leg to the side of the bed and brings the right with his hand. But he goes no further. He's missing a few things. The look on Cuddy's face- smug. She knows he'll have to ask. He does.

The police station's flickering fluorescent lights spark up another headache. Fantastic. But he has his pills back now. Throws another down for good measure. No more detox. He feels alright- almost normal with the exception that he can't remember much of yesterday. A hot shower and a few pills cure all ills. Cuddy had given him the message as soon as she'd handed him his duffel, the pills, and a hospital issued cane. The flame throwing other had been relegated to the evidence room of the Princeton Plainsboro Police Department. And Gillman wanted to talk to him- again.

"Detective Gillman." At the front desk, ladies in jeans and polos: PPPD. Sounds like a medical test. One on the radio, the other picking up the phone, looking back and forth from the wall to House.

"Mr. House is here for you. Uh huh. Okay, I'll tell him." Phone clinks down. "Have a seat over there. He'll be with you in just a minute."

Black cushioned unstylish seats, but comfortable. The cane, its four legs, stands on its own next to him. Makes him feel more invalid than he really is. Two legs would work- if only the one wasn't mangled. He isn't a dog. Doesn't need four legs (only three). Take a look at this place while he waits. They all look the same- just like hospitals. Follows a format- but who created it? Reception desk here, walls always white or some light pleasing color (avoid the darks), put up a frame here, fill it with police patches. Add public service announcement one and two- no make that one and three. Back of the door will work. Lock the door. Keep out the crazies. Slap a buzzer when it opens.

"Dr. House?"

Stand slow. Better for the head. Leg too. Need the speedy cane, dammit. He shakes Gillman's hand. Warm. He keeps it in his pocket for this occasion.

"You're looking better. How do you feel?"

"Fine."

Gillman nods, but he smiles. Like it's funny. Sees this everyday- assault and battery. Common offense. People out of control and unleashed on unsuspecting victims. Then control them, copper. Make an arrest.

"We arrested Gloria Brown this morning."

"You have her?"

Gillman paused as he let House ahead of him- through the door to the inner office.

"She posted bail about two hours later. Husband came by. But I'd like you to look at her picture, see if you can recall anything else."

Desk maze of ringing telephones and radio voices. Doesn't want to stay long. Wants to get out of here before he runs into someone he doesn't want to see. Tritter. Nervous. Eyes flip back and forth. Look for the white hair, the starched shirt, barrel chest.

Gillman's got a desk in the far corner of the building next to the window- not even close to Tritter. He shuts the blinds and House sits in the chair across from what is obviously Gillman's place. Gillman opens a file, pulls out a photo, turns it so that it faces House. Blond hair, shoulder length, eyes too close together, aquiline nose and full lips. She's pretty, but not beautiful. Looks her age, too. Lines around her eyes, her mouth. Bags under the makeup. But people are never beautiful in mug shots. Her lip is split- red on pink.

"This her?"

"That's her."

Nothing comes to him. He is completely blank. So much for triggering memories.

"You remember anything about her?"

House shakes his head. Nothing. Nada. Zippo.

"She says she was in the clinic yesterday after she fell on the sidewalk. Sprained her ankle. Says you were a jerk to her, but wrapped her ankle up, told her to ice it, and practically chased her out of the room."

"I had her file."

"Yep. But her admission form supports her claim. And the nurses who remember her say she left calm and collected- albeit limping."

All very strange. This. "People fake crap all the time. Write down stuffy nose when they meant clogged urethra. She faked it."

"You ever take more than one file into an exam room at a time?"

"Not usually that ambitious."

"But sometimes, though, right? You're on your way to one exam room, but your leg hurts or maybe you're just busy. So you don't drop off the file you just handled right away. You just go on to the next room, pick up the file from the pocket on the door. Put the other on the counter because you'll take it next time." Gillman is smiling. He's happy, excited. Ooh. Deductive skills. No. Speculation. Science starts with speculation. Gillman is sometimes, apparently, right. House nods.

"Sometimes."

Doesn't make sense though. Someone else would've been in the room, right? And where's the second file?

"Are you sure you don't remember anything else? Give her any reason to…"

"Listen, Gillroy…"

"It's… Gillman."

"I've got Swiss cheese where I normally have Gruyere. If I remembered who did it or why, I'd be the first to tell you. You're saying it wasn't her?"

"She's our only suspect right now. I'm reviewing security tapes this afternoon. That should at least tell us who was in the room."

House stands. Anger biting at his seat. He won't stay. Won't answer this idiot's meandering questions because he doesn't have any answers. Why bother calling him in ask him these questions when the answer is ten minutes away on tape? Obvious. Incriminating.

"Do you have anyone that might want to harm you in any way?" Blank stare as he rolls the question in his head. Harm? Mutilate? Throw off a building? Start with his preschool teachers, move on from there. "Just in case…" Gillman adds. Co-workers won't touch him. And patients? A bigger problem is that even if there are people that want to hurt him, he has enough problems remembering names- much less faces. He's terrible at them. Remembers their disease, their hematocrit, their liver enzyme tests. Names? Tom, Dick, or Jane. What's in a name? A body is a body is a body. Male or female. Hundreds, thousands of people pass through the hospital. He recalls a few of their ailments (a tumor the size of an embryo at six months, a self-circumcision, a rape victim), but none of their names. Their faces- an amalgam of the thousands. How many has he treated? How many patients actually want to kill or injure him? Very few. At least it should be based on principal. People don't kill you for saving their lives. They rarely kill you even if they learn they're going to die. Gillman doesn't know that House's job makes people happy- gives them either something else to concentrate on or something to be happy about. They've got cancer and they might live five years if they're lucky. Better make good to everyone they've ever wronged. Or they've got a herniated disk and not a failing kidney. Keep off the trampoline and life will go on just fine.

The detective doesn't know House or his history- the complicated mix of life saving rescues and the brutal necessities of getting the information he needs. Detective believes only a cop has that dilemma. Nastiness for the greater good is expected from cops; not from docs. Gillman has only two realities: the solved and the unsolved; victim and perpetrator. House is technically both, but naturally neither. The detective's consciousness cannot fathom the possibilities. Any detective that had done his research would've put this case in the back of a drawer somewhere- saved for a rainy day. But this guy hasn't. So House gives the simple answer: a shrug and "About as much as anyone else…"

The detective frowns, puts everything back into the file.

"Cuddy said you took my cane as evidence."

"Yeah, sorry about that. There were blood splatters."

"My blood."

"We're having it tested. You might want to buy a new cane. Takes a while."

"Great." Turn away. Conversation over. Detective doesn't bother to ask him to call, just hands him a card. Knows he won't. Knows his mistake and won't make the effort to correct it now. Failure to establish rapport creates a dearth of trust. Doctors and detectives have something in common.

Ringing phones, chattering secretaries, haughty macho cops. House passes through the room he wishes he'd never entered, doing his best to escape. An angry man is chained to a chair by a desk. The chain looks loose, but the man is quiet for now. Downward, embarrassed glances between overt contempt for this position. A kid, pubescent, is doing his best to talk and not cry- annoying snorts and stuttered breaths. The kid, his lip and nose bloody, sniffles and looks directly at House. Gloria Brown's lip was busted too.


	5. Chapter 5

The agility of the Repsol is comforting, despite the roaring that echoes in his head and the rub of the helmet on the stitches above his right eye. The car would've been the more physically comfortable, but he hasn't been back to his apartment since yesterday morning- before this whole thing started. Home is where the heart is- where the temptation to flop facedown on his couch will be too difficult to resist. And there is a prowler on the loose. Someone he owes a big favor or rather, a jab to the ribs at the very least. The roads at this hour in the afternoon are clear, easily navigable. But the asphalt gives off rays of heat that climb into the space between his skin and the fabric of his jeans. The leather jacket's vents prevent complete stifling, but he's drenched in sweat in just a few moments. The ride is only four miles. Always quicker on the bike. This is why he has it.

Swerve to the right, back to the left, over the entrance ramp into the garage. And the handicapped spaces are full? Strange. Park wherever. Another convenience of the bike.

Quick elevator upstairs and he is in the clinic again, facing down Previn. Her familiar scowl almost never changes, but she's weary today. Bags under her eyes. Late night screwing her boyfriend. Or girlfriend. Whichever. Both. The image brings a shudder. Push it down before it's out of control. Be nice and she'll get you what you need. Sympathy card from yesterday. Cuddy says Previn tried to_ help_ him. Not likely.

"Hi."

"You're not supposed to be here."

"Yeah, I know." Play up play up. Rub the bandage on the head. Maybe it's bleeding. Get her to get him a fresh piece of gauze, some tape, sneak into the cabinet and grab the files from yesterday.

"And your bandage is wet."

Perfect. Thank you, motorcycle helmet. "Yeah, well, that's why I came by. On my way home, but I don't have any… you know… supplies. So I figured… just a few bandages, some tape maybe, antiseptic. Know you guys keep a tight inventory around here so…"

"We're not a drug store, House."

"Come on… If I wait much longer, there's going to be blood in my eyes and that makes it awfully hard to ride the bike."

Head tilts. Resolve slipping.

"Sorry about yesterday." Push it more. "I don't remember much. Hey, speaking of which, can I see the files from yesterday? See if they… you know… trigger memories."

"Stay here. I'll be back in a second." Annoyed, but it works. And fortunately, Brenda doesn't like to delegate. She's a do-it-herselfer.

Excellent that she does his bidding. Master of manipulation He slips behind the desk, getting angered glances from the other nurses. But they don't bother him. Previn will have a fit when she sees him there, his feet on the desk. But he's more tired than he likes to admit and there aren't any empty chairs otherwise.

Previn reappears with a small stacked of bandages and a roll of tape. "Thank you. How about the files? Might want to follow up on some patients and all." Shove the bandages in a pocket and stand out of her way. Not happy about this. She pulls open a desk drawer and withdraws a small pile of blue folders. Thank God for understaffing.

"Enjoy." He actually smiles for once. Sticky sweet. Heads upstairs.

Wilson's office has two benefits: one is the couch that lines the window space, the second is the lock on the wooden door. Cuddy might be able to get a key, but at least he'll have some warning. Of course there's the balcony door that leads to his own office, but that too, can be locked. It will give him the time he needs because Wilson has a horribly lengthy surgery scheduled this afternoon. All on the schedule. Some unlucky bastard with a tumor in his stomach. What good is a schedule if you don't make use of the information contained within?

House settles onto the couch, coffee in hand. The leather gives way and he is almost comfortable. He brings forth the first file. Somewhere within- his perpetrator.

The woman really made the most sense. Gloria Brown, mother of two, with a split lip and a sprained ankle. He so rarely carries one file between rooms. It's happened once or twice in five years that he went from one patient to the next without a visit to the nurse's station. Procedure, routine. It makes sense that a patient lashes out after a diagnosis: immediately and without precedent. You're dying: You're angry. If Gloria really had a sprained ankle, there wasn't much to be angry about. Next patient please. But who? Who was in the room after Gloria? Who was he treating before? After? In between?

Drugs. He thinks. Drug seekers could've had a motive, but was anything missing from the clinic? A syringe of Demerol perhaps. Nabbed by an addict. Why would he risk stealing it from a fully staffed hospital? Must be easier ways than trying to plow through a doctor. Doesn't make sense. Drug seeker wants drugs, maybe House denied him. Got angry, smacked him down. But still seems more trouble than its worth and where is his file? Had to be admitted to the clinic before House could see him… her… it.

Letters bounce up and down on the pages before him as he reads every file. Every diagnosis. All blasé and with no obvious marking for cause. Clock reads 3:30 and he has two more files to look at. Pats self on back: taking his time in the clinic never had so many benefits. He'd actually charted cases yesterday.

Look at the watch. Previn is a snitch by nature. He gives Cuddy another 10 minutes to show if she shows at all. Wilson has another two hours of surgery. Safe and sound.

Heart palpitation. Melanie Tanner. Female. Twenty four. Grad student. Referred upstairs for EKG. No inconsistencies discovered upon exam.

Bloody nose. Male. Four. Punched on park playground. Bleeding stopped. Nose not broken.

Nothing is immediately helpful. Nothing. None of this sparks a memory. He is still blank and his head still hurts.

No Cuddy. Surprising, really.

He reaches into his pocket, withdraws his bottle of Vicodin. Recommendations from the other doctors have gone to shams. What do they know of pain? If his head explodes, then he'll worry. Cost benefit analysis right in the higher reasoning areas of the cerebral cortex. Which may have been damaged in the fall.

Make use of the copy machine and give bugger eyes at the clerical staff waiting in line. Run kids, run! Loose cannon on the Xerox- looks dangerous. Cram all relevant info into his jacket pocket. This is illegal. Better clean up the mess on his head. Eliminate all chances of being stopped on the way home.

After the restroom, he finds Cuddy downstairs. Lingering at the desk, overseeing, waiting and with a knowing smile on her face. Always knowing. Thinks she knows. Mostly wrong though. About herself. About him. But good at delegation and ass kissing. A pro at getting her way. He sets the file on the desk and moves in the direction of the door without so much as a word.

"House," she's after him, walking next to him. "You're not a detective."

"Could be. If you're into that sort of thing. I've got the afternoon off…"

"Leave it alone. Let the cops do their job."

"Never think otherwise. I'm sure Gillfish has got it all under control."

"He's here now. Talking to security about the tapes. Wanna talk to him again?"

"Nothing to say. Blank slate and all…"

"Go home then. Rest."

"Sure thing." Suspicion lingers and he walks from it.

He pats the addresses and phone numbers that are tucked safe into the interior pocket of the leather jacket. A plan for the afternoon. He can call them all. Question the heck out of them. So how is that festering wart? All healed up? A hang up or a curse or the slightest pause will give him reason for a visit. It'll be fun. But when he gets back to his apartment, the couch's cool exterior reminds him that he didn't sleep last night. He's almost always right about these things.

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	6. Chapter 6

A Brutal Precedent (6/11)

Please review me today. I need uplifting words of encouragement :(

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Flip on the television, news at six. A woman, blond, a cut on her lip. "And then he hit me here." Points to her lip, winces. "I fell back against the table and he fell against the counter. When he swung, he fell. Idiot forgot he was lame. I got out of there as fast as I could." What the? That's her. Gloria. The photo on Gillman's desk. What is she saying? What is she talking about? Could be? No. Not possible. Up the volume. More, more. Repeat this story. "I was afraid. So I lied. At first." House's head is whiting out. He can't hear anything else. Pulse rushes in his head. White white white until it's shrill and whining at him. Alarm clock or phone. They are always confusing. Push the snooze on the phone. Answer the alarm.

"House, is this true?" Wilson. Before he can answer, another call beeping into the conversation. Bring the phone back and look: Cuddy. Only a matter of time until the unfamiliar number of the PPPD shows up. Ignore it. He's still asleep- he's sure of it.

"… inexcusable House. You can't hit patients…" Wilson- still talking. Never shut him up now. "You have to hire someone, House. You're out of control." No doubt, Cuddy is calling him to tell him the same. Once Tritter gets his hands on this, he'll never hear the end. He's dead meat. Sliced and diced. "Are you sure you don't…" 

"Shut up, Wilson."

"That's your answer? Shut up? Effective. I'm sure that will work on the stand too. She's going to _sue_ you." Millions of dollars he doesn't have. Always short on cash. Inexplicable. Maker's Mark and OTB. Expensive women and expensive habit. Always willing to pay more.

"She's lying."

"Are you sure? How can you be sure? You can't be sure. She had to defend herself." The best offense is a good defense.

"Why would I hit her?" Isn't reasonable. An idiot smacks subordinates. A guy with a death wish picks a fight with a bigger guy. Only an imbecile strikes a female patient in a monitored clinic. He may be an idiot sometimes. A death wish maybe. But never an imbecile.

"Why do you do anything you do?" Good point. But still not good enough. "You're insane." No use in protesting. He has no defense. The score is 3-0. His attempts squandered by a speedy sweeper. "You should call the cop… and Cuddy. This is a mess." Hang up. Figures. Speechless anyway.

"More on that story and Dr. House as it develops. You'll see it here- first on WTXF."

Off is a viable option. He uses it, throws the remote into the crevice of the couch. Will have to dig it out another day. Not tonight. The phone beeps- Cuddy's voicemail. Answer tomorrow. Dig in his pockets- here somewhere. Ah, here. David Gillman, Detective. Big Gold Badge. Protect and Serve and all the honorable pretentious platitudes that cops have to pour over themselves to make them think they're doing a good job. Traffic Nazis. Most of them. Just Traffic Nazis. Ninety percent of crime perpetrator on another perpetrator. Dwell in their preposterous perpetrating politic. Let them all kill themselves off. Better for the rest of us. Easier for the cops. And no one ends up in jail.

"Gillman." Strained voice. Sleeping? Detectives sleep? What happened to on the job 24/7 like all that film noir? Bogart and Bacall. All the clichés before they were clichés. Lone wolves, weeping widows, cigars and straight up.

"This is Dr. House."

"Yeah…" Nonplussed. Not even interested. Sexing it up with his wife. Girlfriend. Whoever.

Door opens before the words are out. Open by definition, busted in truth. Was someone knocking before? Tritter. "House, you're under arrest." Under house arrest. His shoulders protest his hands yanked behind his back, his head throbbing where they knock it against the floor 'on accident.' Handcuffs chafe a hole in the delicate skin of his inner wrist. Someone is singing.

_I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps  
They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps  
I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps  
His day is marching on. _

His hand slapping on warmed leather. And eyes open again. Blurry television images, the voice of newscasters done for the day. Eyes adjust to the darkening room and clear. No cops, no handcuffs. A hint of orange light from the window obscures the image on the glass.

_"And the Eastern Tabernacle Choir will be on tour for two more weeks." _

The dream fades. Dream? Memory? Or something he heard on the news while half asleep? Did he hurt her first? Dreams are the answers to questions we haven't figured out how to ask: so Mulder says. A way to solve all problems: life according to Wilson. Dreams let us process, relax, mend the brain for another day and prepare us for situations to come. Random Neural Firings. RNF.

_"I hear they're heading to Boston next?" _

_"Sure are, Gene. Don't miss this group, they're really special."_ WTXF, news at ten. Always first…

House sits fully, his back resting against the leather. His legs and arms are tied with a thousand bricks. His shoulder sore from a wrong position. Energized he is, however, with an all-consuming dread and a feeling he can neither trust nor ignore. The fear of not knowing is worse than knowing. Humanity's motivation for gods, religions, psychics, and oracles. As legend and story live, the prophecy unheeded: the Ides of March. Or rather heeded with no effect or occurrence. Nostrodamus and doomsday. It's tomorrow, they say. Always tomorrow. 2000, they say. But no, they say now, 2012.

Groaning with the effort and cursing aging body, he pulls himself to stand and heads for the kitchen. Coffee first- fresh and hot. The air-conditioned apartment is chilly. And then the search begins. Gloria did not go to the police: there is nothing on WTXF's news page about it. Nothing, in fact, is mentioned at all. A little offensive his assault goes unnoticed. Anonymity suits him best on his off days.


	7. Chapter 7

A Brutal Precedent (7/11)

Kind of a short one today. Thanks for the reviews :)

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Coffee is poured and the computer runs hot, fanning the inconceivable small parts that make the world faster, sooner, now. But the search is already dead-ended. Gloria Brown, Princeton. Gloria Brown Trenton. Gloria Brown Gloria Brown Gloria Brown. New Jersey's own little mystery woman, of which there is little information. But a telephone number. Not in Princeton- South Brunswick. Close enough. Could be her. Give it a ring. One ring, two. The voice is unfamiliar: Nick and Gloria, leave us a message.

Nick. Nicholas. The wonders of the Internet. A wedding announcement. Gloria may be married, but also a divorcee or an unwed mother. Married in 2005. Daniel Mulligan, Jr. was the ring bearer. Little Molly the flower girl. Church wedding- Baptist and big. Praise be to God for Google. Or rather praise be to those California nerds that created it.

Daniel Mulligan, Sr. A much more common name, so many from which to choose. The road less traveled or the path of least resistance? Time is money but slow steady wins the race. e

The apartment in dark. The only light the white from the screen as it glints off his glasses. Couldn't help it when, last year, he realized he was squinting at Cameron's newly written article. Better read it this time. The cashier at the drugstore had asked if he needed assistance. Optometrists are better suited for that work. Request denied, cheap glasses purchased despite the pang he'd felt when he'd seen himself in the mirror wearing the damn things. So much like his father. Scares himself sometimes.

Father succumbed at 45 to reading glasses and newspapers. He remembers the day, home from a gig, to find his father in the new thick-rimmed readers at 2AM. Gazing over the newspaper, asking where he'd been. Always the same answer, always the same result. Bullshit. Your fingers are red. Stink like smoke and booze. Guitar is in the trunk of the car. How'd you get in? Got a fake i.d.? Someone you know? Need to study, Greg. School tomorrow and a game the day after. Skip practice again and I swear I'll call the coach. Greg's not sick- physically. But he's already got straight A's, a scholarship, and he's the best player the team has on the field. No way he'll get benched for missing a practice. The boy never learns. The boy never works for anything. He'll work for this: as Moses, as Arthur, as Odysseus. Suffering is the human condition. That which does not kill, makes one stronger. Lock the doors, have a good night, Greg. Hope it's not too cold for you out there. By the time he walks to Theresa's house his father will be looking for him. The grass, at least, is soft. And he wore his heavy jacket out tonight. It's November. His father stares out the lighted window, the end of the glasses held tight in his lips. Concern. But not enough for the freezing kid out on the back porch.

This train of thought: moot. He shakes his head against it.

Daniel Mulligan. The name- is it familiar? Seems as if. Yes. He thinks. The jacket and the phone numbers on the couch. Copies of admittance. The same name. Daniel Mulligan. Yes. Daniel Mulligan, Jr. and Sr. The Junior with the busted up nose on the playground. Punched, it says. A kid fight. At age 4? Barely out of diapers. The kid's a boxer. Or a bag. All soft in the middle.

The face is obsolete. He substitutes his own at nine. Dad pulling him across the field, bruising his arm with his grip, warning him time and time again. This better be the last. Last time to skip school. Better be the last time you skip a practical. Better be the last time you talk to a patient like that. Last time you skip clinic. Last time you're late. Next time you come here, we'll have you arrested, you addict. Who tells him what to do? He is Prometheus.

Not this kid. Not this Mulligan. Perhaps a coincidence. A bad day for the Mulligan and Brown family.

Interruption in the form of a phone is Wilson. Always Wilson. Just calling to check in. Coming over. Tired of the hotel. Needs a pizza and a beer. On it's way already, just as House likes it. All grease and meat.

No choices for the rest of the night. There is only pizza. Food for the masses. Made even in the highest reaches of the Himalaya- though not to Italian specifications. And the pleasant buzz of thick German beer. Angelina Jolie on Tomb Raider. But still his mind is racing against the prospect of violence even as gore comes to the screen. His fingers touch the folded papers in his jeans pocket. Violence: self-perpetuated and handed down in the generations of Haus to Huis to House.

The image in his head not the one on the twenty four inch screen. Gloria Brown, with her sprained ankle and her ex-husband two rooms over maybe. Having just recovered his errant son. He imagines _it_. He says something. She says to fuck him. He says something again. And she resists, badgers, says something back and he loses it. Does he? Does he lose it? Hit her in the face. Her lip cracked, blood on her teeth as he falls forward and cracks his head. She runs. Not likely he knows- for her to cover for him. To leave him there without a report. But this, an extension of his history? Surely, it must not be. He is in control. Always in control. No witnesses. Gloria Brown. Daniel Mulligan. Gloria Brown. Gloria Brown. No help. It's easier to think of his own violence than that of others.

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	8. Chapter 8

A Brutal Precedent (8/11)

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He wakes to the smell of fresh brewed coffee and the sound of something frying on his stove. A brief thought goes towards his cabinets and fridge- last he remembered- empty. Still tired, exhausted from the night. Wilson has slept in the apartment- somewhere. And it's early yet. The sun's summer rays- always a reminder of those days he didn't go to school. Early days. So hot that he wants to run to the lake right away. Jumping straight to bottom's cool and muddy depths. When his dad is away at war and Oma is there to cook him bacon and eggs. Bacon today, but no eggs. Pancakes instead probably, overtaken by the smell of pork frying in its own streams of fat. Are pancakes kosher? Not the ones from Hungry Jack. And certainly not the bacon. Wilson conveys his worry through the simple task of offering food. Stone age mentality.

Slow lifting of the eyelids reveals traffic in the morning news program. The parkway blocked by a four-car accident. Today's market prospects. Tomorrow's Yankees game. Today, he needs to call Daniel Mulligan and make sure his son is healthy and feeling well. Today, he will solve this _who done it_. And he will prove he is in control. Solid, defensible, and still a good doctor in control. He is not his father's son. Mistakes made will not be repeated.

"You up?"

"No." House eyes the Vicodin on the coffee table for a half second before collecting it, taking his dose. Something to get through the morning.

"Made breakfast."

"Your mothering instinct goes against all conventions of manhood."

"You're welcome."

House gets to his feet, stumbles a half second as his head adjusts to the still unstable marble behind his eyes. Somehow today, his nerves on the tip of a fulcrum. Right to left, left to right. One motion too strong and he will tip tip tip over. This is what it's like to be violent. This pointed precarious balance. One slip and his fist will shoot out. His voice will raise.

The pancakes are good. The sugary fake syrup coats his teeth. His nerves calm for a moment, swallowing the bulbous mass of batter and high fructose corn syrup.

"Cuddy give you another day?"

"A week." If he's right, he's really going to jail this time. Losing his license. No excuse.

"Gonna use it?"

"Nope." Need to collect his things at the office. Maybe have one more cool case. Use it while you got it.

"Don't push it too hard. Concussions can be nasty."

"Head's fine." Physically. A few screws loosened somewhere. Could've happened a long time ago. He is a violent man.

"You remember any of…"

"No." Clipped, contained. Don't go there.

"Did you talk to Gi…"

"Yes." Enough.

"He got the tapes yesterday. You might want to see what he has to say."

"Not interested." Not interested in those tapes, interested in what happened. The tapes show entries and exits. They won't show the actual room.

Wilson laughs. Does that a lot. Laughs to fend off criticism. Laughs to fend off whatever bothers him. A forced laugh, not contagious and not medicinal.

"Do I have to ask?" He's going to hit Wilson soon.

"You got seriously assaulted by not one, but two patients in the past year. You don't even pretend to be interested. Everyone else wants justice. You pretend to brush it off like it's nothing, practically refuse to help the cops find them, and go on like nothing happened. Meanwhile, a cop trips you in an exam room and you're so intent on revenge, that you end up in court and almost go to jail. It's like you think you deserve the major blows but the little stuff- the jabs, the kicks to the groin- are an eye for an eye?"

His ears burn in embarrassment- regret over a confession. Should've kept it to himself. Then his head shakes, he frowns and a hand raises with a fork as he's chewing his next bite. He could use it as a weapon. Wonders if one day he'll be reduced to spoons. "I have no memory of what happened…"

"That's the point. Anyone else might be halfway interested- angry- in what happened. Big mystery- who the heck hits a clinic doctor? But you're… you're complacent."

"I'm not complacent." Not complacent at all. He can't let anyone find out what he did to that woman. God, what he did.

"What did you do with those files yesterday?"

"Ah ha." Baiting him. Drawing him into a lie only to catch him in the end.

"Ah ha ah ha. Exactly. You're not as complacent as you claim. In fact, I'll bet that you stole those files yesterday just so you could try to get one up on the detectives. Solve your own case."

"I'm not trying to solve my own case. I just want whoever it was to be suffering from a miserable painful debilitating venereal disease."

"My suspicions confirmed." Wilson bows. Show stopper. "Let the cops handle it. And get some rest."

"You're giving me a ride in." The cops won't handle it. They'll turn it against him. She'll confess to being hit. He's sure of it. Something is happening.

"Find your own. Cuddy gave you the day off, so stay home. Recuperate."

"I'm bored."

"I know. Another reason you're into this. Read a book."

"Books are boring." Can't focus.

"What are you going to do with the patient? You have no team. Thus no patient." No patience either. No patience for this at all. Die, Wilson, die.

"I can handle it myself. What do you think I did for all those years before I had minions?"

"You got sued. And then you got fired. I remember. Here's a novel idea: look at some resumes while you're home. Should keep you busy."

"I don't need…"

"Yeah, you do."


	9. Chapter 9

A Brutal Precedent (9/11)

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He paces. Step. He doesn't have it in him. Step. He hit Chase once. Step. Doesn't count- the pain gave him a short fuse. Step. Runs in the family. His own father lowered the level. Step. He's hit patients before. Step. When they attacked him first. Or he needed something. Step. What a mess. Step. She must have provoked him in some way. He must have needed something… The brutal precedent set by his actions won't leave him alone.

Finger the stitches on his head: uncovered post shower. The wound throbs in time with pounding thoughts. Mulligan. Brown. Mulligan and Brown and Gloria and the two Dans. Unsettled, incomplete with only a half remembered dream. Step step and sit, plant the cane in front and grab the pill bottle with the other hand. He slams two, rolling them with his tongue once before forcefully swallowing- practice. Liquids make it easy. Practice has made it convenient.

The addresses taunt him on the coffee table: Daniel Mulligan. He knows the location. Remembers seeing the sign. Mulligan will be at work. He works maintenance at a hotel- dayshift. He'll be unclogging a toilet, fixing a television, tinkering in utilities room. He'll be there. Need to go. Talk to him. Talk it out of him. He's ready now.

The doorway is blocked when he tries to leave. A man, almost as tall as House and much broader, but soft in the middle. He looks to the left and right, centers on House. Thick bushy red eyebrows and bloodshot green eyes bore into him, seeping anger. Danger, Will Robinson.

Speechless, House backs away, almost stumbles on the fourth point of the cane. There is no opportunity to refuse admittance. There is no chance of him getting the upper hand. He never thought of it before- what if he pushes first, takes a swing with the cane? Assault First Degree. Can he claim self defense if he hits first? House instead says and does nothing as his head tilts to the side- away. Don't touch me.

This is either a home invasion or fallout. Toss a coin, let fate decide.

"What do you want?" A safe question if he is supposed to know the guy. Equally safe if the guy just wants money. Judging from the suit and tie, the former is more likely.

The guy pushes on his shoulder. And they're in the living room. The intruder shuts the door behind him.

"They told her to stay away from you, so you must've said something…lied." Interesting way to start a conversation. Play along. And relax. Relax. He's not packing a gun at least. Right? Relax and the mood will spread through the room. Release the tension. He goes around and sits on the couch, sprawls. The guy comes to face him, standing with crossed arms.

"I was bleeding. She was a likely suspect." Can this guy read him? The more he can pull from this guy without revealing his lack of knowledge, the better. If he doesn't know, he can't use it. There's something this guy wants from him.

"Where's my wife's son?" Is this Nick? Nick the Dick.

Deep sigh, telling of a lie: "Secret." He looks up, purses his lips.

"She wants her son back. Her idiot ex has no business…"

"Assuming 'idiot ex' is the actual father, actually, he does."

Big guy bears down on him. Release of tension incomplete. This is not working. Back away. Back away. Hands clutch tighter on the handle of the cane even as his shoulders push into the couch's leather.

"You have no idea who you're dealing with." This can end soon. There is no disappointment in that prospect. Big Guy points his finger in House's face. "My wife was in jail this morning with a bunch of low-lives. Because of your lies."

Scoffing laugh emanates before he can stop it. Remembers his own history. Twice over. Jail sucks. "I know how that feels." Big guy isn't laughing or even sympathizing. Big guy is edging closer, his fists balled. Bad idea- nostalgia.

"You fucked us. And you need to fix it, Dr. House." Big guy leans down, his hands gripping the edges of House's jacket, lifts him enough so that his ass is no longer in contact with the couch. He has lost grip on his cane, lost his one and only weapon. His hands now grip the Big Guy's, white in their tension on the collar of his jacket. He won't do it. Just a threat. Hollow. He's bluffing. But the words hold tight in his throat, stuck as their eyes meet. Big Guy shakes him a bit and a seam on the jacket creaks and stretches. "Fix it… soon." And he falls back. Released. Breaths are too fast, too tight in his chest. And he is so focused on that, he doesn't realize Big Guy has left until the picture frame by the door falls and shatters on the hardwood.

The couch and its comfort suck him in and he sits in silence, mind racing around every angle of the events in the past forty-eight hours. Fix this. Big Guy. Nick Brown. Someone else. He's confident he's never seen the guy before. How can he fix anything when he can't remember the right configuration? He needs to know what happened in that room. And he needs to know _why_ it happened. If he doesn't figure it out soon, he has a feeling that the Big Guy will be back and there will be more than empty threats and ripped seams. A physical blow would have been condemning at this point. Big Guy was restrained. Big Guy needs House able to act.

People act in two ways: premeditated and in rage. If the clinic was rage, then this threat was premeditated. Two methods. Two people. Two marriages, one kid. One and one is two. Where is kid number two in all of this? Dan Mulligan is out there somewhere. Oblivious perhaps. But maybe he knows something. House hopes, for a moment, that he did hit Gloria Brown. He has begun to believe he did. For whatever reason. Under whatever circumstances. Subconscious hunch. Underlying guilt. Maybe he hit her to have it passed onto the jerk of a husband. But the consequences of doing so make him take it back. He is uncontrollable, unchecked, and he will be arrested.

An ambulance rushes by outside and yet still he sits. The phone rings and rings and rings. He is reluctant to answer at all. One of the rings is his mother, who speaks through the machine. "Greg, it's Mom. Just calling to check in. They said you were home today." Call her back later. What does she want? A visit perhaps. To update him on some random relative's failing kidneys. Ring ring again. This time twice over before he gets the message. "John Baxter." Jesus. He hasn't heard that name in a while. Crazy S.O.B. just about postal like a hermit in a backwoods cabin writing letters to the president about his most recent abduction experience. Not really. Almost though. Has to be someone in the old band. Someone kicked the goddamn bucket or is really close to it. Baxter leaves a number, says he probably won't answer. Two calls from Wilson. One from Cuddy.

A group of kids uses the sidewalk as a skate park. He can hear the roll of urethane on concrete, the thwack of a board flipping, teenaged crackled laughs and taunts. If he was a kid again… if his leg was better again… Not the issue today. If he hadn't fired Chase, if Cameron hadn't left. Today, there are no distractions and no one to submit to his whims or demands and no cases to solve except that of his own assault. When the phone rings again, it's Gillman and he leaves a message: An update. "We should meet ASAP. Call me before you come down." House can already smell the stink of the jailhouse toilets. Sometime midday, he makes two calls: one to the place Mulligan works and the other to his home. Neither gets an answer and he won't leave a message. His head spins with possibilities and he cannot act any further except to shuffle the handle of the cane back and forth between his hands.

Knock. Wooden door, meet boned hand. Knock knock. "House?"

He doesn't move. He doesn't feel like he can. Move that is. Stuck. His body conformed, melded into the material of the furniture over however many hours he's sat here.

"Are you… okay?" Wilson stands idle, moving keys between his hands, still in the remnants of his suit, shirt tucked, but tie askew. House didn't hear the door opening.

"No."

He circles. The room spins. "Uhh… that detective was looking for you again. You talk to him today? I told him you were home."

"No."

"Come on, I'll drive you."

"Can't."

The lights come on. Too bright. Overwhelming. Squint, turn away, but his neck is stiff. Sat here too long.

"At least give him a call… if you're not feeling…"

"I'm fine!" Irritable. Doesn't want to do this. He's had it. He'll turn himself in when he's ready.

Characteristic sigh. He does too much of it. There it comes- the hand at the back of the neck and the downward glance. Eyes raise (predictable), searching. The only question: concede or push?

"What's going on?" We have a winner. Next.

"Nothing."

"Something is. You're irritable."

"I have a concussion. Concussions cause irritability."

"So does anxiety, depression, low blood sugar… Should I go on?" He stops, tilts his head. Dammit. He's looking at the phone. Blink blink blink. "You've been sitting here all day?"

"Thought of hopping over to Bali for a while… but airline travel's just a bitch these days…"

Three more minutes (if he can last) and Wilson will give up. House wants Wilson to leave. To stop asking questions about his well-being, to stop being a matron (because he could never be a patron), and because his cologne is stinking up the place. But House also wants him to stay. He wants him to be there if Big Guy comes back. If Detective Gillman and the cronies from the PPPD come and smash in his door. If his leg hurts and he wants a beer. And he doesn't want to think about this anymore today. A subtle move by the wide right. Shuffle step just before the snap. He touches the stitches on his head.

"You could've gone to the shore or something." He's taken the ball now and running swiftly down field.

"It's not Bali."

Wilson nods his silent agreement. "Wanna get takeout?" Touchdown.


	10. Chapter 10

A Brutal Precedent (10/11)

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It's after ten when the phone rings for the sixth time, some indecipherable voice on his machine after the beep. His head turns back into the pillow and he remains tucked into warm prima loft, on top of air-conditioned sheets. The contrast of heat and a fresh cool draw him towards sleep instead of wakefulness, but his brain won't stop working. And admittedly, today, his brain feels better- if brains had any feeling at all. Clear-headed, no more marble shifting between the back of his head and the front. Only the inane hole in his memory and the feeling that something he has done is unquestionably wrong discomfits him.

Nothing he ever does is _wrong_, per se. He makes decisions based on reason. Thus, the reasons, the logic, may be faulty resulting in an incorrect decision. An allergy instead of autoimmune. An infection instead of a genetic disease. Interpretation of evidence based on years of experience. Sometimes, the evidence lied. But he is never wrong.

But this situation is a new can of worms. Thirty minutes: poof, gone. Buh bye. He is an empty vesicle of guilt for no apparent reason.

Action, people. Action. He can't lie here all day. Today, he must do more than just think. There is no one to do his bidding. No one to put his thoughts to action. Mind over body. He must act. But first there is Vicodin, and leftover Chinese, and two cups of coffee.

The hotel is midrange. First thoughts can be so irrelevant. Characteristic beige exterior punctuated by the plain glass windows and the overhanging vehicle drive through: check in here. Dan Mulligan has a job- but it won't support two kids. He's either hard up for intelligence and ambition or he's struggling and has just now got his life together. Either way, the guy needs more help than House could have possibly given him.

"I need to see Dan Mulligan."

Blank stare accompanies the fish mouth expression on the attendant's face. She's young, twenty maybe. She hasn't got a prayer for doing anything useful in her life.

"Dan? Oh, yeah… he doesn't work here anymore."

"What do you mean he doesn't work here?"

She looks down again to where she's filing her nails, leaving bits and pieces of metallic blue on the pristine counter. If House was shorter, he'd have trouble seeing it. But 6'2" is above average and the raised counter is no burden to his sight.

"I mean he doesn't work here." She is open-mouthed, bored.

"You know where he is?"

"I've only been here a week and I met the guy once. How should I know where he is?"

"Then get me someone who does."

Five minutes of waiting and five minutes of haggling later, House is comfortable in lobby chair and a balding man in a nametag that proudly states "Bob Valliant, Manager" is sitting on the arm of the couch, his hands in his lap. "He quit two days ago. Came in here- ran in here actually- and said he had to go. Said his kid was in trouble. I didn't even know he had kids."

"He say where he was going?"

"Nope. But I bet he was leavin' town. He was real antsy like. Real on edge. His kid really in trouble?"

Aren't they all? When he leaves, he feels Bob's eyes on the back of his neck. Doesn't care- isn't relevant. Bob knew nothing. Bobby wasn't a buddy and apparently no one else was either. Mulligan's a loner and loners are usually at home.

But Mulligan's not. He figured as much, but worth a check. Step wince step wince down the four stairs to Mulligan's apartment building, and back to the bike. Always takes too long with the damn cane- walking to a destination in slow motion. But today it's luck. The bike waits. A man approaches, eyes bulge. "Dr. House?"

Awkward situation here. You know me. I don't know you. But this is the norm. He sucks with faces. They all remind him of someone else. New faces that know him, a terrifying memory of being propelled backwards as lead and a sundry of other materials, pressed into one unique and compact mold, rocket through his gut and land him on the floor. He is wary of strangers who know his name. But cowardice is not his style.

"Yeah?" He stops, stands still, leans a bit.

"What happened to your head?" The guy is olive skinned, dark-eyed, and his hair forms a dark 'v' much higher than it should. If he had on the right pants, he could be plumber and the plaid shirt he's wearing barely does his belly justice. Wal-Mart brand. Cheap and easy and not at all stylish. The guy is anxious, red-eyed, sweaty, and if House is right, he's found what he's been looking for.

Half laugh. It isn't really that funny. "Fell down."

"We gotta get inside. Nick has probably got half his cronies out here watching the place." Bingo. Right on target and House follows him as they go back up the stairs and into the building. Mulligan holds the door open and House edges past the bulging belly. Jelly doughnut man. Jelly belly. Jelly Beans. Those sound good. Always have a sweet tooth. Sugar makes the little heart melt in joy- almost as much as the white pills in his pocket.

"Drink?"

Mulligan stands, holding out a canned Budweiser in the slightest of shaking hands. Fear? Drinks like he dresses. "No thanks." Mulligan shrugs, reaches back into the fridge, and pulls a piece of fried chicken from a Styrofoam container to accompany his beer.

"I know you said not to come back until… But I needed my address book and Danny wanted his Gameboy. We left in such a rush. But Danny's great now. He's afraid to go back, but…"

"Where is Danny?"

"Left him with John." Swell. That tells him a lot. John. John Smith? John Kerry? Johnny Appleseed?

"And he's okay there?"

"John's a good guy- said so yourself. Trust him with your life." That narrows it down. Now he knows why John Baxter called. Christ. The kid is shacked up (literally) in the middle of nowhere with no electricity. Nice move, House. Since when has he _helped _a patient? Christ. "And I tried to call that lawyer…" The rest of the words fade out as Mulligan moves towards the back of the apartment, heading towards what House assumes is the bedroom.

The mind works in mysterious ways and it works even better when subtle clues give it away. Sweaty Mulligan's shaky hand traces the line of the hallway and House can make out the slightest of sniffles. This isn't a quest for an address book and a Gameboy. What kind of idiot takes that risk? One kind. Little Danny Mulligan in trouble either way- abuse from stepdad, or neglected by his addicted biological father. Both shitty paths to tread. Both lead towards rebellion (I hate you), school problems (his grades dropped so far…), alcohol (try this- take the edge off), drugs (just one hit, man), failure (so much potential…). Or not. Depends on the kid really. Depends on the butterfly flapping his wings: Chaos (or lack thereof) rules us all. The lateral shift of a cargo ship by one degree and all is stopped. House doesn't move, but the front door (addicts are careless… unlocked) swings open.


	11. Chapter 11

A Brutal Precedent (11/11)

Thanks for sticking with me through this! See you guys next time.

------------

Another unrecognizable face in a day that's turning out a few surprises after all. Unpredictability can be fun. Surprises kind of suck. Semantics. Short legs carry the unfamiliar face over the threshold and stubby arms are covered with hair that should be on his head. Unlike Mulligan, he is not surprised or anxious or even angry, he's smug. Knows something House doesn't. Openly gun toting, with a sickly decayed grin of a meth addict, he motions House to move on, move on, and puts a finger to his lips. Fuck. But there is no choice when metal is pressed between his shoulder blades. Can't predict smug guy's moves, tries a careful watch over his right shoulder to ensure a finger twitch doesn't catch him off guard. House's right hand, sans the cane because the thug made him drop it, takes the same path as Mulligan's. Tracing the wall, supporting his weight. Bumps of irregularities underneath cheap unassuming beige- already worn. The hall is dark, obstacle-filled- a GI Joe, a Transformer, a medical reference book.

Too busy (high) to bother, Dan Mulligan rubs at his nose, traces the last, licks his finger, looks up with heavy lids. The room blurs into motion as House is pushed forwards onto the bed. Angry words echo through the room, but House can't make them out over the din that started in his head the moment it impacted with the frame of the bed. Flesh toned blurs collide and slide. He is in the middle suddenly, beneath the alternating weight of two men. Colors merge, navy blue meets white and red plaid, red spills onto khaki, burgundy onto beige, the ceiling: white and black, BANG white and silence, and light blue and blue and gold and black pour in from all sides.

Falling down and he can see moving white above him. His arm is stretched vertically then back. Reaching, torn up, his shoulder. The one that aches sometimes. The one dislocated all those years ago just twelve feet from the goal, centerline attack. Got him from behind, sent down- awkward on the torn up field. He got up then, arm sagging, angry, throwing punches with his left. He throws one now, reminiscing, and is held firm. Movement stops.

"Dr. House…" So slight, this voice. So far away. Then louder. "Dr. House!"

Eyes open, breathing. Still the apartment, on Mulligan's floor in the hallway and a toy arm pokes the intersection of his hip and back. A helmeted goony, all in blue and flak jacket stares down at him. "… hear me? … you… living rrrrmmm…" His arms are lifted again and he is dragged quickly down the hallway before he can protest or get to his feet. Lifted like an invalid onto the lumpy couch and it hurts for a second because he's old, because he's gnarled, but once there he struggles to sit, watching.

Moving bodies crowd the small space: rent $550 per month, 200 square feet of rotting shag carpet and molded ceilings and everywhere- blue and black. A few white sleeves poking through. Rifles, pistols at the ready, helmets for everyone. Hushed voices, the distant wail of a siren, a strange static, and ringing from all directions. His fingers trace his stomach, up his chest, feel his face. In tact, nothing wet, nothing red. In tact.

"Dr. House…" A hand on his chest, a familiar face: Gillroy? Gillfish? Gillman. The detective. "…okay?"

So hard to hear what's said through all the noise. Tell them to shut up so he can hear.

"… nk gun ..nt off . Why… can't…" finishes with his fingers pointing to his ears. House sits up on the couch, rubbing at his ears. He recognizes it now- the encompassing ringing: tinnitus. Of the acute variety. Brought about by thug's big bad gun probably going off in the vicinity of his left ear.

"What happened?" He keeps his voice at what he thinks might be a normal level. But it's hard to talk when he can't hear what's been said.

"Gloria Brown has a big mouth!" Gillman yells into his right ear and then stands back, smiling. He says something else, but House can't make it out.

His attention instead focuses as the faltering thug, handcuffed and struggling, is led in front of him, out the front door, curses, spits and is tripped by one of the officers trying to hold him. Mulligan's Dead. Perhaps.

"Hurt?" Gillman yells the question.

His head shakes. No. He's not hurt. He's fine. That kid though…

He makes out the first word by sight -"she" and hears the second: "lied." He's sure the next words are something like "You were right."

A nod, agreement. He would've gotten it. He was so close. The detective's mouth is still moving, but House's attention is better used elsewhere. It is instead directed towards the paramedics that rush into the room, the goings and comings of officers, of their conversations with moving lips and no sound. Silent laughs, points and grimaces, flashes of a camera's bulb. He sees his name on an officer's lips, a thumb in his direction.

He makes to go. Stand up, at least. He limp walks past the officers at the door, out into broad daylight. White light, burning. Surely it was not this bright before- years ago when he entered this apartment building for the second time. He shields his eyes for a moment, looks at the dark shadow of his bike across the parking lot, and sits on the top step. Waits. For what? Time, maybe. Sun drifts in and out behind clouds, negative afterimages imprint on pained retinas and then the world becomes white again. Heat from the parking lot asphalt touches him too soon. It rises and he's the first to catch it. He's sticky now. A thin layer of sweat greases the area between fabric and skin. Slip slide. Needs a bath.

Time passes.

A silver Volvo drives in front of him, slamming squealing brake. No need for this. The fire is out. Wilson runs anyway. And it's funny. He remembers running with Wilson back before so long ago- making fun of him for his high and tight shoulders, his short gait. Wilson claims he doesn't run anymore. Also claims he stopped golfing. But last year there was that new trophy on his shelf. Whatever. Pity is a bitch and an old one at that. Past her prime. But the running thing- one quick, 10 yard jog, and Wilson is breathing heavy. So maybe there is truth.

"Are you okay?" Brows furrow, mouth turned down and hands fidget with keys.

House nods in response. When Wilson starts talking again, House can make out "Gillman" and "called" and it's enough. He can see it: the look of horror as Wilson is paged by Cuddy, taken away from a balding skinny patient in a gown, making that funny run down the hallway and the hand behind his neck when Cuddy tells him the news. By the way his buddy looks, Gillman might well have told him that someone was dead or dying or that the Christ had arrived at 4100 Bragg and all that didn't show, didn't go. Wilson's got his arms crossed and he's squinting in the sun. Like he's angry.

This whole thing. House shakes his head in disbelief. A trickle of a laugh slips past otherwise frowning lips. Not happiness. Self-deprecation. He was wrong. About more than one thing. That much is obvious. Shake it off. Shit happens. But he was right for the guilt in a way he couldn't then understand. Time to stand up and leave before Wilson tries to interrogate him here in the heat.

Automatic action- he opens the passenger side door to Wilson's car and waits and stares as Wilson gets to his feet and makes his way to the other side. Looks confused- what's new? Perpetual confusion (curiosity?) defines Wilson.

As he's shutting the door, House sees Gillman come out holding the metal four-pronged cane. His short legs hop skip down the stairway and one word issues as he thrusts the cane towards its owner: "Kid?"

Wilson's organization is handy for once. The notepad on the dash serves the purpose. House writes a name, the name of a city, and assumes that deduction skills will have to do the rest. The detective nods, as if he knew all along. House wonders just how much and decides it doesn't matter. For once, he doesn't want to know.

Later, there will be testimonies and plea bargains, an admission of gross miscalculation of human nature and an act that he can only explain by the complete lack of memory of the motivations for it. Perpetrators of victim advocacy ensure his act goes unpunished and the higher powers of the legal system allow him to give testimony in place of standing against a charge of aiding and abetting a kidnapper.

Gloria Brown will never admit to an assault on the stand. But she won't be able to give a reason why she left House on the floor. When she cries and tells the judge House hit her, the prosecutor asks for the neighbor, who will stand and says he helped her clean up her lip after he saw her unceremoniously trip over a scooter on the corner of their properties.

The testimony of a 19-year-old kid, Lucy Hernandez, waiting for her parents to bail her out the day of Gloria's arrest, will fill in the pieces of the puzzle. Gloria's jail cell confession: she'd seen House with her son just as she'd gone into the exam room. She'd tried to go to him, catch up to Dan, and get her son back. House had stood by the door, wouldn't let her go. And as he'd made his way over to her once she'd seemingly calmed, she'd used everything she had to get past him. She'd thought she'd killed him. Lucky her. Just assault. What a joke. Hernandez will be a convincing witness and it will give the judge little doubt regarding Brown's intentions, so the defense will issue a quick change of plea.

Lucy Hernandez won't carry paraphernalia in her car again, but Nick Brown won't have another chance to even get a speeding ticket. Conspiracy to commit murder and RICO charges put a person in prison for a long time. On the other hand, the thug that killed Dan Mulligan will wait for appeal after appeal or the day the state straps him to a gurney and pushes the lethal cocktail. Danny Mulligan, Jr. won't have his father anymore and his mother will write letters to him and his sister everyday until released next year on good behavior. The letters always say how much she loves them, how horrible their father was, how none of this was mommy's fault. She'll never have full custody again and foster mothers will always resent the kids whose mother and stepfather went to prison. Will life be any different than it would've been had Nick and Gloria never let Danny out of their sight that day? Or maybe Dan, Sr. would've cleaned up his act, made a home for his son, changed his identity. Maybe. Probably not.

Now Wilson drives him home, under protest, but House wants to lie on the couch, watch flickering silent images on the television, drink an imported beer. He doesn't care when Wilson shakes his head and tells him that he should see an ENT if it doesn't get better. It will get better. Wounds heal and scars fade. Pain- ehh. Sometimes, it's a stubborn thing so he swigs a pill with the Grolsch. Pain sticks around more often than flaky fellows and combative patients. At least it's reliable. At least there's no question who or what is responsible.

The door slams loud enough for him wince. Gone back to work. Thank God for Wilson's work ethic. Silence- except the ringing and the muffled voices on the television. The light filtering in from the blinds fades white to orange, orange to sienna and dwindling to dark until the only light left is the blue glow of the set. Exhaustion weighs on the tops of his eyelids and his head can't help but rest on the pillow. But his brain and his eyes in disagreement and he lies awake for hours. .

Something has happened here. Something has happened and he wishes he could forget it all.


End file.
